A vision of glowing coal in a dying fire,
their smoking pyre winking
against gray clouds rumbling
down the steep mountains, tumbling,
quickening toward our clandestine valley.
We should not,
but for minutes we dally.
It was the first sign of what future we had;
the first time we swore it could not get so bad.
On we trudge into the storm, side by side,
but sharing in a youthful pride,
steps forming a steady pace,
and our hearts taking hold of a reckless grace.
Reality never felt like such
a distant thing,
forgotten is winter, we know only spring.
It was the first sign of what past could not tell;
the first time we swore it had to bode well.
Soon swirls of wind-song come flurrying,
whisking our sun-kissed cheeks,
jaws clenched, hands in an iron clasp,
we can hardly see, but we keep our grasp.
As long as your fingers are strewn within mine,
I have reason to believe we
will come out fine.
It was the first time a flicker of doubt arose;
the first time we denied what both of us knows.